Salve on the whipping boy

On a day like this, when the hundred sleeping cats
dream a whistle stuck in their throats dozing,
when June shows its ass is when the day same
as every other I found dragging my buzz along
with me, the hundred cats askitter, a lone dozing
minotaur, given rosy cheeks and so on by
humorous God, or panting mathematics. Poor soul
me, I sucked it up and slang the head around.
It whistled, like a young cat, “What was I
in this pathetic rolling of orphaned dust…”
before I walked out gripping pretty, pretty brown hair,
pretty eyes pointed up and pretty cheeks reddening
for me, I thought, for once, unhappily.

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~ by Jeremy on June 5, 2012.

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